


Win This Time

by tuanpark



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Some Calculus shit bc I love Math
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2584619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuanpark/pseuds/tuanpark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One man's trash is another man's treasure. Isn't that how it goes?</p><p>In which Oliver finds important things in the worst of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Win This Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters are not my own, and everything written is purely fiction.
> 
> Leave comments and other stuff! :D also, follow me on tumblr. [colivrs](http://colivrs.tumblr.com)

Oliver likes to take showers.

He thinks it started two weeks ago.

He thinks it started when he kicked Connor out.

It's not that the shower makes him forget--if anything it makes him remember everything more clearly. It's almost as if he's a masochist, letting all these brilliant flashes of Connor fill his mind. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees what had occurred all the while imagining what could have been. He only does it when he's in the shower though. That way, he won't know if the wetness on his face are droplets from the shower head or hot tears fighting to roll down his cheeks.

Sure, it's painful. And sure, he's in pain, but he doesn't think he wants to forget. And yeah, maybe they were made to be broken, but he also thinks things happen for a reason, and that this was just one of the heartbreaks that would lead to his _one and only_.

He lets the water cleanse him. He feels dirty, is the thing. Dirty for breaking laws and doing things that are half if not fully illegal projects for Connor. For what? Sex? A 7-inch cock? Is he really that desperate?

The water grounds him though. It's like paperweight bringing him down to Earth because he feels paper thin right now. He feels vulnerable and fragile, and the water keeps him safe. He closes his eyes and lets each drop fall onto his skin like a million tiny kisses pecking every inch of his body. He thinks a few droplets peck him on the side of his eyelids and race down his cheeks.

He brings his hands to his hair, palms full of fruity-smelling shampoo. He remembers, once, when Connor, in state of rush, ended up borrowing his clothes (button up too long and a little too tight on the chest, suit jacket too thin on the shoulders, and slacks far too long) and taking a shower in his apartment because it would take too long to go back home. Connor had used Oliver's soap and shampoo. He remembers Connor thanking him for the clothes even if they were a little different from his usual measurements. He also remembers telling Connor they looked really nice on him, that anything looked really nice on him. But what took him by surprise that day was when Connor leaned in and gave him a short kiss on the lips, the usual husband-and-wife, or husband-and-husband, or wife-and-wife goodbye kiss. And Oliver remembers taking the longest breathe, as if doing so and holding the air in his lungs locked tight would stop time and keep them in this frame forever. Of course, it didn't. And of course, time went on. The scent of fruits and freshness filled his nose. Oliver realized he might have a thing for Connor wearing his clothes and _smelling_ like him. And that realization did nothing to stop Oliver's heart from beating triple times its normal speed. 

Oliver lets the water clean him. But admittance flows out of Oliver that even though he's clean, he misses everything that was Connor. He's not thoroughly clean, not really. Or else, why would he remember all these situations that make him want to take a dip in mud.

When Oliver steps out of the shower, he sees he's missed a spot, as usual. It's on purpose, but he'll never admit it. The faded C.W. written on his wrist by Connor himself feels as if it's as vibrant as ever. It's not. He wishes.

He looks at the mirror, fogged up from the heat of the shower. He wipes it with his hand. He's met with red eyes and flushed cheeks. He blames the shower for the red eyes. Oliver theorizes they make his eyes itchy.

He hears a knock on the door. He's about to get it when Julian shouts "I'll get it."

He doesn't answer, just keeps his eyes locked on his reflection. He thinks he hears a familiar voice, but he doesn't want to leave the safeguard of the bathroom. He thinks he hears the name Connor, but it could've been any word: honor, fawner, yawner, goner. He tells himself one little sneak peek wouldn't really do anything.

He sees a familiar blur of pale skin and dark hair, and his heart aches. It aches as loud as it screams, in silence with nobody hearing his plea for help.

Julian closes the door and turns around, a spatula in hand wearing only his tank top. He looks as if he was interrupted while cooking. Oliver almost asks him why he's cooking, but then he remembers that when he told Julian to come over and keep him company, he had forbidden him from bringing takeout with a mantra of _not for dinner, never again._

"Who was that?" Oliver asks softly. He knows the answer. He just wants confirmation. Or refutation. He doesn't know which one he wants more.

"The guy next door asking for some sugar," Julian replies easily.

Oliver knows he's lying. Julian knows Oliver knows he's lying. They don't acknowledge or say it though, because doing so would actually present the problem at hand. And that is no good. Oliver feels a part of him wanting to run after Connor now, half naked and wearing only a towel, willing to forgive him and take him back.

The other part tells him to sit his ass down and keep his heart out of it.

Oliver ends up choosing the latter and having dinner with Julian. Oliver is lonely.

When Julian says goodbye at half past ten, Oliver gives him a grateful nod for being a good friend and providing him entertainment and company.

Oliver feels restless and decides a jog in the cool night wind would calm his mind and relieve his stress. He changes to his running clothes, light and dri fit with light shoes and nice arch support. 

He almost rushes past it. Almost. And thinking about it now, if he had, it would have been the saddest story ever. A story of two functions meeting at one point in the graph, never to meet again.

He's walking past the reception desk when he sees a bouquet of white and pale yellow roses. And suddenly, a famous quote pounds him from the side.  _One man's trash is another man's treasure_. Isn't that how it goes? And Oliver is definitely Connor's trash. He's sort of pathetic, to be brutally honest with himself.

He knows it's not from Connor, or even for Oliver, but curiosity piques his interest anyways. It's a hit or miss with curious minds. He tells himself it's curiosity. He knows it's something much different from that though, something akin to hope.

He hopes it is what he thinks--trash. Because the possibility of it being something else would make everything fall back crumbling.

Oliver gives a sweet smile to the receptionist, who gives him a sour look in return. He bends down to pick up the bouquet from the trash. And almost instantly, he gets bombarded with the sweet aroma of fresh roses and the strong scent of familiar old spice. He knows whose cologne that is. And Oliver closes his eyes and breathes it in, sure this is a dream and would like to savor every second of it.

He takes a full minute breathing it in, letting it fill his lungs like it's smoke, and oh god, he is addicted. When he looks at the card in the bouquet, he sees neat handwriting. Unusual, seeing as Connor's handwriting is horrible and could barely pass for chicken scratch. However, the o and r's in _'sorry_ all look familiar, and Oliver feels a twinge in his heart weaken him.

This is it. This is the beginning of the end. This is when Oliver realizes he likes Connor more than like, and isn't that a scary thing in and of itself?

The card says _I'm sorry. Will f(x) forgive me?_  Oliver is a little confused. That is, until he looks at the back and sees instructions in the same handwriting: _Use 'u' substitution_.

He's positive that that's not how 'u' substitution works and that it's only used when trying to solve the integral of a certain derivative. But hey, it's the thought that counts.

He walks out to the night, roses in hand and answers Connor's question with unopened eyes. He faces the sky, dark with little stars due to the amount of light given off by the city. He gasps out an _okay_ in a fog of exhalations like blowing his cigarette smoke filled lungs. It's addictive, this feeling of wanting more. It's just as sad. 

But that's okay. Oliver lets the cool wind whip against his cheeks. He likes the cold. It stings.

"Do you really mean that?"

His eyes don't open. Oliver knows that voice all too well. Though what used to be dripping with confidence and sarcasm is now drenched with nervousness and uncertainty. He kind of likes it. However, he thinks if he opens his eyes, everything will vanish. Or maybe it wouldn't be who he thinks it is. And he doesn't want that to happen, so for now, let him look up at the starry sky with his eyes shut. 

"Mean what?" Oliver asks tentatively. He breathes in, inhaling the smoke, addicted.

"Do you forgive me?" Connor asks.

"Hmm," Oliver replies, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, exhaling the smoke, content.

He feels his lungs pulling in, and Oliver thinks he'll never get used to this feeling. When he opens his eyes, Connor is on the wall, placed himself casually in the darker corner. Oliver thinks he looks hellish, but also devilishly handsome. 

Oliver walks slowly up to Connor until they're chest to chest. This distance, Oliver has what seems to be inches upon inches on Connor. And while they're only separated by about 2 to 3 inches, it seems much larger than that. It must be from Connor's new posture, slumped and lost.

With a caress on the cheek, Oliver brings his hand and lets it rest on Connor's cheeks. He wipes the twinkle he sees in those cheeks, feels the warmth of them spreading in his thumb. They don't say anything, just stand in front of each other with centimeters and fabric separating them.

They make eye contact. It's dark out, but Oliver still wonders if they make a pretty sight.

Connor moves first.

He doesn't shy away or pull back from something so deep, romantic, and heartfelt. It's all genuine, and Oliver can't do anything but stare at Connor in admiration. Connor brings his arm around Oliver's neck, whispers what seems to be a thousand silent apologies on his skin. Oliver forgives him in all of them.

They stay in that position for days, weeks, months, arms around each other's necks, lips so close from touching.

It's only minutes.

And Oliver is already impatient from addiction.

"You're too good for me," Connor kisses the words on Oliver's neck.

Oliver kisses him like it's the first time, wild and avid, and like it's the last time, passionate and with purpose. It's the words they never said to each other. They're answers enough.

When they get back to apartment 303, they take time devouring each other, tasting each other painfully slowly, but no speeding things up that it takes away meaning from what it is. Oliver has had many nights where he and Connor would have sex for hours on end. Those were the times when they had sex or took action in intercourse. Tonight? Tonight, they make love.

Showers of kisses on lips, lips on tongue and tongues on skin. In the middle of the night, the room is silent save for Oliver's steady breath and Connor's quiet chant of _i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry._

By morning, they realize they weren't dreaming. But upon closer inspection, they also realized they're living the dream.

By the afternoon, Connor has to go to work and promises he'll be back in time for dinner. He ends up borrowing Oliver's clothes. The button up is too long and a little too tight on Connor's chest, suit jacket too thin on the shoulders. The gray slacks are far too long.  Connor takes a shower in their apartment because it would take too long to go back home. When he comes out, he smells of fruits and roses. 

They kiss goodbye like giving each other diamond rings, out of words and feeling like one in a million.

By nighttime, Connor comes back with an exhausted look on his face, nonetheless holding a bag of takeaway for dinner. Oliver gives him a massage, and Connor makes him come three times with his mouth.

By the next morning, Oliver notices that they're not a story of meet once, meet twice, goodbye, but rather meet once, meet twice, meet infinity. They're like sine and cosine, he guesses. Oliver realizes he likes going to the bathroom.

Oliver likes to takes showers.

He thinks it started two nights ago.

He thinks it started when he took Connor back.

It's not that the shower makes him remember--if anything it makes him forget about everything else but Connor and the now. It's almost as if he's a hedonist, letting all these different types of pleasure build up in his gut until he's all but addicted. Every time he closes his eyes, he smells the sweet aroma of fresh roses and the strong scent of old spice. He only does it when he's in the shower though. That way, he won't know if the heat on his cheeks is coming from the warm droplets from the shower head or from his blood flushing his face giddy.

Sure, it's exciting. And sure, he's in a state of excitement, but he doesn't think he wants to forget. And yeah, maybe they were built to come back together, but he also thinks things happen for a reason, and that their broken hearts were mended to be stronger together.

He also thinks he's found his one and only. Yeah, there's that too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this little fic I wrote! But eeeek, please leave comments (open to feedback, criticism, or compliments). Please leave kudos if you liked it, which I hope you did!
> 
> Follor me on my tumblr :p [colivrs](http://colivrs.tumblr.com)


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